Page 21 of Her Soul for a Crown
The only thing she wanted from Mahakuli Mahatissa was his slow death, choking on his own blood, his skin burned inch by inch—
The beads bit into her palm. Clarity rushed back. The plan was the plan for a reason. This raja had not yet played his final role: husband.
Fanning her lashes on the tips of her cheeks, she feigned shyness, just as Auntie Nirma had instructed. “It’s not that, my raja. I only didn’t want to shock you with the truth.”
“Which is what?”
Anula touched her necklace, making a show of steeling herself, then scooted closer and drank her wine. She poured them both another glass. “My name is Anula. You took the throne when I was six. Usurpers have long plagued the Kingdom of Anuradhapura, but you are different.”
She recited what she had studied of history, the lines Auntie Nirma had written out. For although the persuasion tincture was strong and lasted for nearly five days, it was most effective when paired with flattery.
“The people call you a savior, a hero who put to death the worst of the rulers. You were a mere boy when you saved us from his horrors, and again when you defeated the Kingdom of Polonnaruwa. I’ve dreamed of you since I was a little girl.”
That part, at least, was true.
The raja held his wineglass, a smirk on his lips, a thirst in his eyes. “What did you dream?”
Anula blushed. “You can’t expect me to tell.”
“I do.”
She whispered into the falling night, “I dreamed of serving you as wife.”
“Ah, you’ve heard Prophet Ayaan foresees my marriage.” The raja finished his wine, and as the cup touched the table, Anula poured more. “Did you also hear that I will have ten sons? My wife must be more than beautiful. She must be strong.”
Anula sidled closer, noting that for the second time, he didn’t notice the change in the wine’s taste. The effects should already be setting in. “Am I not beautiful?”
The blacks of Mahakuli Mahatissa’s eyes expanded, drowning out the brown of his irises. “You are.”
Anula took his hands in hers, bracing herself against the cringe, and placed them on her hips. “Am I weak? Am I frail?”
“No,” he breathed, long and deep. His clammy hands rubbed down to her thighs.
Anula stroked his oily hair. “The fortune tellers told me I would bear many children.”
“Mm,” he grunted as she placed her palm on his leg and drew circles with a finger.
“The Heavens have aligned our paths,” she whispered in his ear.
“The Heavens,” he murmured, breath rank. The dark of his eyes flickered.
This was it. This was her moment.
“The Heavens want for me to be the mother of your line. It is our destiny.”
“It is our destiny,” he repeated, jaw working, breath labored.
“The prophet would agree.”
“The prophet would agree.” Hunger pooled in his eyes as a hardness tented his sarong. He gripped her hips tightly and growled, “You are the mother of my line.”
“I will be.” Hoped bloomed in Anula’s chest. She’d done it—she’d laid the path to a crown, not a pyre. Justice would have its day. She placed a hand over his heart as it sprinted and bucked. “We marry in two days’ time. Now tell the prophet.”
Mahakuli Mahatissa called out, downing the remaining wine as a servant rushed in. “Send a message to Prophet Ayaan and the rest of my court.”
“Sir?” the servant asked.
The raja slammed the cup on the table and stared back at Anula, black eyes flickering with her tincture. “I have chosen a wife.”
